The brothers sit in front of the Dargah to dedicate their prayers directly to the sage. They were constantly clearing the front pathways to get a clearer view of the structure. Their dramatic hand gestures and laser-focused eyeballs aimed at the Dargah's gate served as a perpetual reminder that only Allah is worthy of blessing their fervent supplications. The half-hour session included five to six songs, with a wide literary fervent of Amir Khusro to Baba Bulleh Shah.

In the crowd, you could see a mix of reactions to the Qawwals' soulful tunes. Some, dressed in modern attire, pulled out their phones to capture the moment, grinning at the mesmerising Sargams. Others, moved by the performance, discreetly offered money, using their contributions as a way to connect the masses with spirituality. One could also argue that this arrangement is also a way to demonstrate the relative power position in the event. One could also observe that those with greater financial means often chose lower-denomination notes, giving them at frequent intervals. This strategy made their contributions more visible and highlighted their relative power positions.

Then Qawwals swiftly moved to sing the iconic verses “Chaap Tilak Sab Cheeni Tose Naina Milai Ke” (You've taken away my looks, my identity, by just a glance). The song is said to be dedicated to Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya by his Mureed Amir Khusru. Sufism, as I see it, is a way to connect to God in the easiest way possible that is through love. The lyrical mysteries of Sufi verses often confuse the audience whether it is directed to one’s lover or one’s God. Sufi tradition breaks this water-tight compartmentalisation of God and Lover. Nizamuddin was a lover of Khusru, and Bulleh Shah never loved anyone more than Shah Inayat, his Murshid.

But all these beautifully crafted lines lose their meaning when you see someone with a hand fan waving a muslin cloth tied on a stick to eradicate the collective heat produced by the gathering. As the strains of Chaap Tilak play in the background, there’s a peculiar irony in the air. Amidst the crowd, where faces blur into nothingness, the person with the fan stands out, yet remains invisible. They tirelessly wave their makeshift fan, hoping that a power-infused person might toss a few coins or notes their way. In this moment, it seems they are caught in a cycle of longing, unable to see beyond their place in the social hierarchy. Are they there seeking something more profound? Is the act of waving a fan a subtle part of their quest for enlightenment? Can listening to qawwalis alone spark a journey of self-discovery? These paradoxes swirl in your mind as you witness this scene.

The pre-modern perception of literary Sufi was aimed at losing the prolonged human chains and getting on to the path of salvation. Am I supposed to think that the handfan guy was seeking spiritual salvation? Can we add spiritual salvation to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs? Will he be more spiritually enlightened if he had food to eat? The complex channels and structures of the ‘chains’ in the modern world are too strong to get broken by mystical verses. We can not escape these questions even in the pious set-up of a Qawwali.

When confused Bulleh Shah declined to make Shah Inayat his Murshid, due to his caste credentials, Shah Inayat said, “Tu Bullah Nahi, Bhulliyan Aan” (You are not Bullah, you are lost). I felt everyone there was listening to Baba Bullah but was actually “Bhulliyan”.